The backstory: When bulls came charging at me in Karnataka

Jallikattu is an ancient sport in Tamil Nadu, but not all Tamils are fond of chasing bulls or being chased by one.

In March, just ahead of the Karnataka assembly elections, I crisscrossed the state to track down the families of 23 men who, according to a list released by the Bharatiya Janata Party, had been killed by “jihadi elements”. Travelling 1,500 km over 12 districts, I found such claims were false and exaggerated. One man listed as dead was still alive. Two had committed suicide. In most cases, rivalries over real estate, politics, elections and romantic affairs had sparked the murders. Only 10 cases could be traced back to Muslim organisations.

In many places, I faced the usual problems: finding good sources and tracking down people without an address or phone number. But in one case, the challenge was unexpected.

Uppara Hatti is a remote village in Afzalpur taluka in Gulbarga district on Karnataka’s border with Maharashtra. In November 2016, the husband of the village sarpanch had been killed here.

Arriving in Afzalpur, I was surprised to find the village on Google Maps – it was 70 km from the district headquarters. I hired a car for the travel, assuming it would be a short drive. My driver was very excited about accompanying a journalist and wanted to know if I was about to do a sting operation. His enthusiasm dipped when I said I was not a television journalist and sting operations were not very ethical.

The drive went smoothly until 4 km short of the village, the bitumen road ended abruptly. The driver came back dejected after the locals told him that there was no proper road to the village.

Despite my reservations about his strategy, he decided to drive through the barren fields, which the early morning rain had left moist. The ride was bumpy and I was worried I would have to foot the bill for the damages the journey would inflict to the car.

When the car itself protested with loud grunts, we parked it under a tree. Even before we had embarked on the journey, the locals had insisted a tractor was the only practical mode of transport to their village, and that cars and motorbikes would skid on the wet soil. But now stranded midway, we couldn’t find a tractor.

About 40 minutes later, a motorbike made its way through the field. I jumped out of the car, waved my arms and yelled at the top of my voice to get the rider’s attention. As luck would have it, the rider did not know Hindi. Neither the driver, who was from Jharkhand, nor I spoke Kannada or Marathi.

After a good ten minutes of an exchange in sign language, the man figured out that I wanted to go to Uppara Hatti and genially offered a ride for Rs 200, which he took in advance. Given my elephantine frame and his bamboo-like build, I was preparing for a good fall after he refused to let me drive. The fall did not happen. But there was something I did not see coming.

About five minutes into the ride, we drove past a couple of bulls. Remember that since the path was a bumpy field, my newfound friend was driving slowly and carefully. All of a sudden, the bulls decided to give us a chase. I realised this only when the animals were about 50 feet from us. If you expected someone from the land of jallikattu to hop down from the vehicle and catch the bulls by their horns, you are mistaken. But Tamil did make its presence felt.

Scared at the prospect of being mauled by two bulls in a remote border of Karnataka, I panicked and began shouting at the driver in Tamil. When fear grips someone, it is the mother tongue that comes to the rescue. It doesn’t matter where you are.

The bulls were gaining on us. The terrain was in their favour. I asked the man to drive faster, only to be met with an insouciant shrug. I involuntarily closed my eyes, waiting to feel the horns inside my flesh.

Nothing happened.

When I looked up, I found the bulls were still running but they were well past us. They then jumped into the adjacent field before coming to a halt. That’s when I realised they were not chasing the motorbike but the stack of hay that their owner was piling up on the field.

Along with the loud thuds of my heart, I could also hear the hysterical laughter of my friend, amused as he was by a grown-up man from the city losing it at the sight of two running bulls. I joined him with some self-deprecating laughter, my fragile ego hurt and my shirt wringing wet with sweat. In that moment, we had no need for a common language. Laughter was enough.

On my way back, I dumped the motorbike for a tractor. Always listen to the locals – I had learnt my lesson the hard way.